Charles James Lever (1806--1872) remains the most popular
novelist that Ireland has ever produced. He was born in
Dublin and studied medicine both there and in Germany. After
practising his profession for several years, he began to
write his novels of Irish life, the first of which, "Harry
Lorrequer," appeared serially in the _Dublin University
Magazine_ in 1837. This story caught the fancy of the public
at once, by its unrestrained spirit of rollicking fun,
verging often upon farce. The flow of animal spirits which
Lever displayed was even more conspicuous in the most
popular of all his books, "Charles O'Malley," and in the
succeeding novels, "Jack Hinton," "Tom Burke of Ours," and
"The Confessions of Con Cregan," from the last of which the
accompanying selection is taken.
Wit and humor are blended in everything that Lever wrote,
and he had a keen eye for the grotesque. His later years
were largely spent upon the Continent, and he died at
Trieste, where he had been British consul for many years. He
and Samuel Lover afford the best examples of Celtic wit that
are to be found in literature.
When, my worthy reader, we shall have become better acquainted, there will
be little necessity for my insisting upon a fact which, at this early
stage of our intimacy, I deem it requisite to mention; namely, that my
native modesty and bashfulness are only second to my veracity, and that
while the latter quality in a manner compels me to lay an occasional
stress upon my own goodness of heart, generosity, candor, and so forth, I
have, notwithstanding, never introduced the subject without a pang--such a
pang as only a sensitive and diffident nature can suffer or comprehend;
there now, not another word of preface or apology!
I was born in a little cabin on the borders of Meath and King's County; it
stood on a small triangular bit of ground, beside a cross-road; and
although the place was surveyed every ten years or so, they were never
able to say to which county we belonged, there being just the same number
of arguments for one side as for the other--a circumstance, many believed,
that decided my father in his original choice of the residence; for
while, under the "disputed boundary question," he paid no rates or county
cess, he always made a point of voting at both county elections!
This may seem to indicate that my parent was of a naturally acute habit;
and indeed the way he became possessed of the bit of ground will confirm
that impression.
There was nobody of the rank of gentry in the parish, nor even "squireen";
the richest being a farmer, a snug old fellow, one Henry McCabe, that had
two sons, who were always fighting between themselves which was to have
the old man's money. Peter, the elder, doing everything to injure Mat, and
Mat never backward in paying off the obligation. At last Mat, tired out in
the struggle, resolved he would bear no more. He took leave of his father
one night, and next day set off for Dublin, and 'listed in the "Buffs."
Three weeks after, he sailed for India; and the old man, overwhelmed by
grief, took to his bed, and never arose from it.
Not that his death was anyway sudden, for he lingered on for months
longer; Peter always teasing him to make his will, and be revenged on "the
dirty spalpeen" that disgraced the family; but old Harry as stoutly
resisting, and declaring that whatever he owned should be fairly divided
between them.
These disputes between them were well known in the neighborhood. Few of
the country people passing the house at night but had overheard the old
man's weak, reedy voice and Peter's deep, hoarse one, in altercation. When
at last--it was on a Sunday night--all was still and quiet in the house;
not a word, not a footstep, could be heard, no more than if it were
uninhabited, the neighbors looked knowingly at each other, and wondered if
the old man were worse--if he were dead!
It was a little after midnight that a knock came to the door of our cabin.
I heard it first, for I used to sleep in a little snug basket near the
fire; but I didn't speak, for I was frightened.
It was repeated still louder, and then came a cry--"Con Cregan; Con, I
say, open the door! I want you."
I knew the voice well; it was Peter McCabe's; but I pretended to be fast
asleep, and snored loudly. At last my father unbolted the door, and I
heard him say, "Oh, Mr. Peter, what's the matter? Is the ould man worse?"
"Faix that's what he is! for he's dead!"
"Glory be his bed! When did it happen?"
"About an hour ago," said Peter, in a voice that even I from my corner
could perceive was greatly agitated. "He died like an ould haythen, Con,
and never made a will!"
"That's bad," says my father, for he was always a polite man, and said
whatever was pleasing to the company.
"It is bad," said Peter; "but it would be worse if we couldn't help it.
Listen to me now, Corny, I want ye to help me in this business; and here's
five guineas in goold, if ye do what I bid ye. You know that ye were
always reckoned the image of my father, and before he took ill ye were
mistaken for each other every day of the week."
"Anan!" said my father; for he was getting frightened at the notion,
without well knowing why.
"Well, what I want is, for ye to come over to the house, and get into the
bed."
"Not beside the corpse?" said my father, trembling.
"By no means, but by yourself; and you're to pretend to be my father, and
that ye want to make yer will before ye die; and then I'll send for the
neighbors, and Billy Scanlan, the schoolmaster, and ye'll tell him what to
write, laving all the farm and everything to me--ye understand. And as the
neighbors will see ye, and hear yer voice, it will never be believed but
that it was himself that did it."
"The room must be very dark," said my father.
"To be sure it will, but have no fear! Nobody will dare to come nigh the
bed; and ye'll only have to make a cross with yer pen under the name."
"And the priest?" said my father.
"My father quarreled with him last week about the Easter dues: and Father
Tom said he'd not give him the 'rites': and that's lucky now! Come along
now, quick, for we've no time to lose: it must be all finished before the
day breaks."
My father did not lose much time at his toilet, for he just wrapped his
big coat 'round him, and slipping on his brogues, left the house. I sat up
in the basket and listened till they were gone some minutes; and then, in
a costume as light as my parent's, set out after them, to watch the course
of the adventure. I thought to take a short cut, and be before them; but
by bad luck I fell into a bog-hole, and only escaped being drowned by a
chance. As it was, when I reached the house the performance had already
begun.
I think I see the whole scene this instant before my eyes, as I sat on a
little window with one pane, and that a broken one, and surveyed the
proceeding. It was a large room, at one end of which was a bed, and beside
it a table, with physic bottles, and spoons, and teacups; a little farther
off was another table, at which sat Billy Scanlan, with all manner of
writing materials before him.
The country people sat two, sometimes three, deep round the walls, all
intently eager and anxious for the coming event. Peter himself went from
place to place, trying to smother his grief, and occasionally helping the
company to whisky--which was supplied with more than accustomed
liberality.
All my consciousness of the deceit and trickery could not deprive the
scene of a certain solemnity. The misty distance of the half-lighted room;
the highly wrought expression of the country people's faces, never more
intensely excited than at some moment of this kind; the low, deep-drawn
breathings, unbroken save by a sigh or a sob--the tribute of affectionate
sorrow to some lost friend, whose memory was thus forcibly brought back:
these, I repeat it, were all so real, that, as I looked, a thrilling sense
of awe stole over me, and I actually shook with fear.
A low, faint cough, from the dark corner where the bed stood, seemed to
cause even a deeper stillness; and then in a silence where the buzzing of
a fly would have been heard, my father said, "Where's Billy Scanlan? I
want to make my will!"
"He's here, father!" said Peter, taking Billy by the hand and leading him
to the bedside.
"Write what I bid ye, Billy, and be quick; for I haven't a long time afore
me here. I die a good Catholic, though Father O'Rafferty won't give me the
'rites'!"
A general chorus of muttered "Oh! musha, musha," was now heard through the
room; but whether in grief over the sad fate of the dying man, or the
unflinching severity of the priest, is hard to say.
"I die in peace with all my neighbors and all mankind!"
Another chorus of the company seemed to approve these charitable
expressions.
"I bequeath unto my son, Peter--and never was there a better son, or a
decenter boy!--have you that down? I bequeath unto my son, Peter, the
whole of my two farms of Killimundoonery and Knocksheboora, with the
fallow meadows, behind Lynch's house, the forge, and the right of turf on
the Dooran bog. I give him, and much good may it do him, Lantry Cassarn's
acre, and the Luary field, with the limekiln; and that reminds me that my
mouth is just as dry; let me taste what ye have in the jug."
Here the dying man took a very hearty pull, and seemed considerably
refreshed by it.
"Where was I, Billy Scanlan?" says he; "oh, I remember, at the limekiln; I
leave him--that's Peter, I mean, the two potato gardens at Noonan's Well;
and it is the elegant fine crops grows there."
"Ain't you gettin' wake, father darlin'?" says Peter, who began to be
afraid of my father's loquaciousness; for, to say the truth, the punch got
into his head, and he was greatly disposed to talk.
"I am, Peter, my son," says he; "I am getting wake; just touch my lips
agin with the jug. Ah, Peter, Peter, you watered the drink!"
"No, indeed, father; but it's the taste is lavin' you," says Peter; and
again a low chorus of compassionate pity murmured through the cabin.
"Well, I'm nearly done now," says my father: "there's only one little plot
of ground remaining; and I put it on you, Peter--as ye wish to live a good
man, and die with the same easy heart I do now--that ye mind my last words
to ye here. Are ye listening? Are the neighbors listening? Is Billy
Scanlan listening?"
"Yes, sir. Yes, father. We're all minding," chorused the audience.
"Well, then, it's my last will and testament, and may--give me over the
jug"--here he took a long drink--"and may that blessed liquor be poison to
me if I'm not as eager about this as every other part of my will; I say,
then, I bequeath the little plot at the crossroads to poor Con Cregan; for
he has a heavy charge, and is as honest and as hardworking a man as ever I
knew. Be a friend to him, Peter dear; never let him want while ye have it
yourself; think of me on my deathbed whenever he asks ye for any trifle.
Is it down, Billy Scanlan? the two acres at the cross to Con Cregan, and
his heirs _in secla seclorum_. Ah, blessed be the saints! but I feel my
heart lighter after that," says he; "a good work makes an easy conscience;
and now I'll drink the company's good health, and many happy returns----"
What he was going to add, there's no saying; but Peter, who was now
terribly frightened at the lively tone the sick man was assuming, hurried
all the people away into another room, to let his father die in peace.
When they were all gone, Peter slipped back to my father, who was putting
on his brogues in a corner: "Con," says he, "ye did it all well; but sure
that was a joke about the two acres at the cross."
"Of course it was, Peter," says he; "sure it was all a joke for the matter
of that: won't I make the neighbors laugh to-morrow when I tell them all
about it!"
"You wouldn't be mean enough to betray me?" says Peter, trembling with
fright.
"Sure ye wouldn't be mean enough to go against yer father's dying words?"
says my father; "the last sentence ever he spoke;" and here he gave a low,
wicked laugh, that made myself shake with fear.
"Very well, Con!" says Peter, holding out his hand; "a bargain's a
bargain; yer a deep fellow, that's all!" and so it ended; and my father
slipped quietly home over the bog, mighty well satisfied with the legacy
he left himself.
And thus we became the owners of the little spot known to this day as
Con's Acre.